The Emptiest of Feelings
by Jixie
Summary: After the war, the survivors are left with their guilt, doing what little they can to help Cybertrons recovery.


The Emptiest of Feelings

by Jixie 5/2009

Transformers Animated © Hasboro

* * *

They were in the stagnant period between the battle and the victory. The last warriors from each side had fallen, and now they were all scrambling to salvage what was left. On the other side of the room was a muted rustle as one of the many injured 'bots roused to consciousness. Percepter turned, offering a grim scowl.

"Go back on standby," he ordered, although there was an underlying hint of concern in his computerized voice. This one was in fair condition compared to many of the others… but it had been touch and go for a while.

The 'bot stirred again, defiant. "My—"

"Your brother is fine." With that he headed towards the damaged Jetfire, passing by bench after bench of ruined Autobots. "We sent him to the barracks to rest and recharge, just as you should be doing."

"Where is… this?"

This earned a slight smirk. "You're back where you began." Then he placed a steady hand on the younger 'bots intact shoulder, and that reassurance seemed to be enough.

"Okay. Okay." Jetfire settled back down, only to catch Perceptor's attention as the scientist began to leave. "Is done?"

Glancing back, Perceptor gave him a sharp nod.

"It's over."

* * *

This place was not an infirmary. For that matter, she was no medic. Still, she knew how to monitor the status of her charges… and more importantly, she knew when to call in a real professional. For now, that was the best they could do.

None of that mattered to Jetstorm. All he knew was that Glyph wasn't a mechanic— or anything like one— and that just wasn't _good enough_.

"Where being Wheeljack?"

She ignored him.

"Or Perceptor?"

"Jetfire is _stable_ ," replied Glyph finally, barely hiding her exasperation.

He gave her a steady, measured glare.

"Look. It's really not that bad. Here," she said, working her way around the room. "Look at this guy." A few moments of scrounging produced a large clear container. Monitor readouts on the side gave a constant status.

Inside was a cube of compacted scrap metal. Jetstorm tilted his head to the side, wordlessly questioning.

"Believe it or not, there _is_ a healthy spark in there." She lowered the box, looking at the contents before shuddering. "We'll be able to take care of this guy once we start building protoforms again."

He got the point. Still a little disgruntled, he sat down on the edge of Jetfire's bench, and was quite.

Glyph, in the meantime, went back to work. Between checking on the injured, adjusting energon feeds, and cleaning up the occasional oil leak, she kept busy with her _real_ work— data entry and encryption. There was so much to catch up on now that the war was over.

They didn't speak again for another half stellar cycle.

* * *

The quiet was inevitably broken by an alarm. Glyph scrambled, quickly checking the crashing Autobot and paging for help. Jetstorm watched, hesitant of what— if anything— he should do.

A few cycles later and help arrived. It was an older 'bot, who Glyph had never met before.

"Ratchet!" Jetstorm was clearly happy to see him.

Ratchet waved his hand, more dismissively than in greeting, and set to work. Both of the younger 'bots stood nearby, watching the drama of life and death unfold. The metal chassis was quickly pulled open and Ratchet was disconnecting and reconnecting wires, then he was soldering something. A circuit board was removed, set aside, only to be replaced nanoclicks later. He fiddled with the machine that had been monitoring the 'bot.

"Here, gimme a hand."

Glyph reached across the bench, and was handed a piece of equipment that she didn't have a name for.

"Hold that steady."

In the meantime he ordered Jetstorm to fetch him this or that, passing back each tool as he finished using it. Time seemed to slow down, but in reality they were there for five, six cycles tops, and then it was over.

Two clenched fists slammed down onto the bench, and Glyph scrambled backwards. For a moment Ratchet lowered his head, resting it against the body of the former Autobot soldier.

"Well," he said finally, "here's another one for the scrap-heap." With that, the old mechanic stood, leaving dents in the bench where he'd struck it.

They said nothing after Ratchet left. Glyph slowly looked around what had once been a Ministry of Science laboratory. The Cybertron Central Infirmary had been razed to the ground, so they'd set up shop in the next best place. Most of the lab's repair tools and monitoring equipment were in still working order, and there had been more than enough scrap metal outside to put up make-shift benches for the injured.

It was one of many that had been set up all over Cybertron… and they were still overcrowded.

She moved back to the sparkless Autobot, and slipped her hands under his arms. Jetstorm didn't need to be asked, he moved to the end of the bench and took hold of the legs.

They carefully made their way out of the lab, into the city streets. They didn't have to go far before they found a place for the body— a row of dead were laid out, waiting to be picked up and transported to their final destination.

"It is should be covering up with something," Jetstorm said. Laying them out in the open felt so… disrespectful. Glyph only shook her head.

Cover them with what?

He made a low, mournful sound and headed back to check on his brother. When Glyph didn't follow, he glanced back, concerned.

"What are you wrong with?"

When there was no answer, he walked over, placing a hand on her arm.

"Hey."

Glyph did not look up from the line of dead. "I ran. When the Decpticons came, I ran. I never even tried to fight."

"Feh. You are not warrior 'bot."

Then she did focus up at him, her free hand gesturing at their feet.

"And you think any of them were?"


End file.
